


Psycokinky arousal

by spellwing777



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Edging, Geralt is straight, Geralt is the dom for once, He's 400 years old so he HAS HAD HIS MOMENTS, M/M, Regis is a sub, Regis is...mostly straight, Rude - Freeform, Walk Of Shame, We need to switch that up once in a while, a friend in need is a friend indeed, handjobs, screaming someone else's name on climax
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 15:46:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18346736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spellwing777/pseuds/spellwing777
Summary: Turns out there's an alternative to torture to get Regis' blood seasoned right for resonance. Problem is, there is not enough money in the world to buy a hooker for it.





	1. Chapter 1

“To make a long story short, I shall need to induce in myself a state of strong psychokinetic arousal. In brief, madness, rabidity. And the stands to be very, very dangerous.”

 

Geralt gave Regis a deeply concerned look. “...I’m having a difficult time imagining you going nuts, Regis.”

 

“I...will admit that it will take quite a bit to-”

 

Geralt can tell when Regis is being purposely evasive. “What, _exactly_ , will it take?”

 

He grimaces. “I...will have to take a decoction to enhance my sense of smell, and then partake of blood. Then I’ll put into a special cage to safely contain me, and you will have to lure in beasts and kill them to fill the air with the scent of blood.”

 

He stared at Regis for a long minute.

 

“...So torture.”

 

“Yes, torture Geralt.” He snapped. “I am fully aware that this would be an unpleasant experience.”

 

“But you're a recovering addict, Regis. Are you sure this won’t cause you to fall off the wagon?”

 

“I would hope that I have enough self-control not to relapse.” He said, sounding defensive even to his own ears.

 

“Regis,” He said, modifying his tone to be as non-confrontational as possible-no small feat for a witcher- “I know that you won’t _want_ to relapse, but do you _really_ feel that you can take the chance?”

 

Regis mulled that over, then sighed.  “Whether or not I can is irrelevant anyway. It simply has to be done. In order for resonance to be brewed, my blood has to be in an agitated state. There is no way to get around it.”

 

“Are you...are you _sure_ there isn't an alternative? _”_

 

“Geralt, I looked for an alternative to my blood. It just doesn't-”

 

“No, no, an alternative to the _method_ of getting you agitated.”

 

Regis stopped, staring at him. “There’s...ah…”

 

He trails off, and Geralt is witness to a rare moment where Regis is at a loss for words. His face is getting red too, which he thought was something that vampires couldn't even _do_.

 

“Not...not something I feel comfortable asking you to do.”

 

“Just spit it out already.”

 

“I...I could be brought to that state via...sexual stimulation.”

 

Geralt snorted. “Never would have thought you’d be a prude. I think we could pick up a prostitute or three, I just got a bonus on one of my other contracts.”

 

“That...that wouldn't work.”

 

“What have you got against prostitutes? Wasn't your former lover one?”

 

“Nothing, and yes she was. She was the one that discovered this actually but-”

 

“Then what’s the problem?”

 

“How do _you_ not see the problem with getting some women to follow you to a ruin, into a dungeon, with all sorts of skeletons and cages?”

 

“A lot of money I imagine, so we’ll probably only get one-”

 

“Damn it Geralt!” Regis snapped, frustrated. “If I could do that, I would have done it already! Do you not understand that I have to be brought to a state of rabidity, where I reveal that I’m a vampire, and not only that, she will have to be made of sterner stuff than most I’ve met to not run screaming when my face starts to look like something out of a nightmare.”

 

He forced himself to take a breath. “Unless you know someone that is like that and can find them on short notice, the only one that fits the bill around here is _you,_ and that is why I was reluctant to bring it up.”

 

Geralt decided to skip over the ‘you’ bit in there. “How would that even work, you aren't even _into_ men.”

 

“I...prefer women.” He was starting to go red again. “But...on occasion-”

 

Geralt held up a hand. “I don't want the details.”

 

They sit in silence for a moment.

 

“So,” He said slowly. “Either awkward sex, or torture.”

 

Regis gave him a reproachful look. “This isn't funny.”

 

“I’m not laughing.”

 

Another mouth-drying silence.

 

“...Which would you prefer?”

 

“Well, obviously I’d prefer not to be tortured and I…” He sighed. “I’d like to think that I’ve conquered my addiction but, if I must be honest, I’m never really _sure._ ”

 

He turned to Geralt. “But this is...this is a bit much to ask of you, my friend.”

 

“Yeah, it is.” He paused.

 

Regis nodded, and went to go-

 

“But if the alternative is actually _torturing_ you, then yeah, it’s...a better alternative.” He grimaced. “If you want to, I’ll help you...do that.”

 

Regis paused, still unsure. It wasn't ideal, certainly, but...if he was honest, he was a coward. He didn't want to risk re-addiction again, and no thirst on earth matched a vampire's bloodlust. There was a lot of questionable things he’d rather do than face that again.

 

“I...thank you. Yes, I would appreciate your assistance.” He grimaced, there really was no good way to put this. He hurried over to his workbench and quickly mixed up something he hoped would help.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Something I often sell to older men to help them with...bedroom issues.” He gagged at the taste. “And a relaxant, among other things.” *

 

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “...Is there something that I can take too?”

 

“Well, if you're looking for something that will make this any better than what it’s going to be...here.” He hands him a bottle. “Mandrake moonshine. I’d drink it all in one go.”

 

Geralt gives considered this, then grabbed an extra bottle. “Let's go.”

 

* * *

 

 

*Alchemical viagra and poppers, this shit gonna be LIT 


	2. Chapter 2

Tesham Mutna was not the kind of place that Geralt would think to take anyone for a nice evening, but they went there anyway.

 

“Why does this have to be done here, of all places.” He said, stumbling slightly. He’d started drinking on the way over, and it was already starting to hit him. “Wouldn't an inn be more...in the spirit of things. They have beds there. Nice ones.”

 

Regis snorted. “But not sound-proof walls.”

 

“My point with the bed still stands.”

 

“We need the specialty cage here Geralt. You might be getting me to a feral state without horrible torture, but I will still be  _ feral.” _ He unlocked the entrance, and Geralt watched in fascination. “Rather not lunge at you in an attempt to ravish you. You’d probably live, but I doubt you’d appreciate it.”

 

He snorted, taking another swig. “Fancy door.”

 

“It’s an ancient form of protection against unwanted guests. The mechanism which releases the latch only reacts to a higher vampire's blood.” They start to descend, and Regis gives him the light version of this place’s history. He decides to gloss over the more horrifying bits of it, trying not to think about just how many ghosts of his ancestors past and their victims might be witness to this. He’s trying to relax enough not to get performance anxiety, and the fact that this place is a torture chamber filled with the dry bones of past victims is really not helping. God, how he wishes that the damn cage could be  _ anywhere  _ but here. He’s decidedly  _ not _ feeling amorous, and any libido he might have had is rapidly diminishing as the knowledge of just how many people have suffered horrible deaths here crawls along his skull.  

 

“You take me to the most romantic places.” Geralt drawled.

 

Regis let out a surprised laugh, some of the anxiety lifting with the help of Geralt’s deadpan jokes. “It’s a pity I didn't bring you scented candles.”

 

“Please don't. Can’t stand them. Don’t know how you tolerate that shit, perfumes and oils and all that crap; you’ve got a nose as good as mine.”

 

“Better than smelling like drowner.”

 

“Yennefer says she likes my manly scent.”

 

“Manly scents are cedar and pine, not a bloated corpse.” 

 

“You always insult your dates?”

 

“Only when I’m in the bowls of dungeon about to be imprisoned in a cage, even if it’s of my own volition.” His tone was light, but he was not able to his just how...uncomfortable he was with all of this. Geralt, even as buzzed as he was, picked up on it. He silently offered the half-full bottle and watched in something between concern and amusement as the vampire downed the rest in one go.

 

“Ready?”

 

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” He climbed into the cage and tested the bars. They were as solid as the day they were built. “I..I apologize in advance for this.”

 

“I don’t think any amount of apologies are going to make this any better.”

 

“That’s true, but I was apologizing for what I might...say, or do during this. The last time I did this, my lover and I parted soon after  _ because  _ of what I said when I was not fully in control of my faculties.”

 

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “What the hell did she even  _ do  _ to you? I and Yen have done some...interesting things with some magic aid, but nothing where I was brought to a state where I was out of my own mind.”

 

He would have rather not revealed some very personal details about his sex life to Geralt of all people, but it was relevant to the topic at hand so they were stuck with it. “She...managed to use a setup very similar to this one, where I was restrained and unable to move much, nor escape. Then repeatedly brought me up to the edge, but did not let me finish.”

 

“That doesn't sound that-”

 

“For three days.”

 

“-I take it back.” Geralt took a breath. “Uh, we don’t have three days, Regis.”

 

“Remember when I said that I took a medicine that helps older men perform?”

 

“One of your most popular products, I bet.”

 

“Yes, well, the one I made was a bit...stronger than the one I give out. Also, this will work so that you won't be here for three days. It will get me, ahh, aroused but conversely more difficult to for me to finish. And powerful enough that it’ll overcome my higher brain functions.” 

 

“How powerful are we talking about then?”

 

He smiled a bit. “Most of my clients simply have circulation issues that are easily corrected, some need something strong enough to make even their horrible cow of a wife look appealing.”

 

“And this?”

 

“This would probably make even a damned nekker attractive.”

 

“I’d like to think I’m a little more handsome than that.” He muttered, strapping him in.

 

Regis...giggled, and Geralt gave him an incredulous look. “You’d be even more attractive if you took your shirt off.”

 

Geralt stared at him and Regis realized what he’d just said, looking horribly embarrassed. “Ah, the decoction has started to hit.”

 

“Would it actually help.”

 

“...Would what-?”

 

“Me taking my shirt off. Also, do you actually find me attractive or is that the medication?”

 

Regis shifted uneasily. “Do you really want to make this any more awkward than this already is?”

 

“I’m drunk enough that I don’t really care. So, yes or no?”

 

“Yes, and...yes. But I’d never seriously  _ considered-” _

 

“Yeah, yeah. It’s fine.” Geralt set down the blanket he’d brought-because he may as well be comfortable doing this-along with a small bottle of oil. “Just surprised is all.”

 

“Surprised at what?”

 

“Well, that you’re into men, first off. You don’t act like...you’re into that.”

 

“I think you mean I don’t act feminine and speak in falsetto.”

 

“...Maybe.”

 

“I’d be insulted if I didn't know you so well. First, I’m 400 years old Geralt, that is a long time not to dabble in the same sex, if just for novelty’s sake. Secondly, it’s not something I really like to declare, for obvious reasons.”

 

“Right.”

 

Regis gave him a concerned look. “Does that...bother you?” 

 

“Well, you’ve never made an issue of it, so no.”

 

Regis let out a breath, releasing the tension he’d been holding in his shoulders since telling him he was into men. It would just be a terrible thing to have the one human he’d met that knew his true nature shun him for his tastes in lovers. “Thank you.”

 

Geralt just shrugged, and then-to his amusement-actually took off his chestplate, gloves, and even the undershirt. Despite the appealing view, Regis tries not to stare, still uncomfortable with this. It seems very...transactional. Maybe he’s never really had an interest in Geralt other than noticing he’s not that bad looking, but he will admit that he’s a sentimental soul. He would have vastly preferred at least some kind of courting before all this. He swallows and supposes he’ll just have to deal with it.

 

Even knowing what’s coming, he still manages to jump when Geralt touches him, subconsciously moving away from the hand going for his tunic buttons. 

 

“...You okay Regis?”

 

He takes a breath in, and sighs. “Sorry, Geralt.”

 

“Should we wait until the decoction really starts working?”

 

“That is...probably best, but…” He paused, gathering himself. “Would you...do me a favor?”

 

“Go ahead.”

 

“Talk about one of your contracts, or something else. Need a distraction to relax.”

 

He grunted. “Hnn, feeling like I need a distraction myself too. Alright, want to hear about what’s happened since you got melted into slag?”

 

“Of course! Did you find your Cirilla?”

 

He nodded, and to Regis’ delight, put a companionable arm around his waist while leaving an arm free for the mandrake. In between shots, he told him of the griffin, the swamps, the baron and his botchling, holding the entire wild hunt off at Kaer Morhen-

 

“He...died?”

 

Geralt stared off at the wall for a long moment. “...Yeah. Defending Ciri.”

 

He wishes his wrists weren’t restrained so he could hold his friend. Vesemir had been Geralt's mentor and father figure for many years, and even to a witcher-where death was an ever-present thing-it still must have been a shock, and a painful loss. He does his best, but the bars only just barely allow him to fit his face between them so he could rest his chin on Geralt's shoulder. 

 

“I’m sorry, my friend.”

 

Geralt takes the proffered comfort, and returns it with both arms around him now, giving him a squeeze. “S’right. Went out the way he would have wanted; keeping Ciri safe and giving a big middle finger to the hunt.”

 

Regis chuckled. “Indeed. He will be missed.”

 

Geralt continues with his tale, still holding him because from the smell of it he’s too drunk to remember to let go. About the point where he’s talking about getting into a snowball fight with Ciri-which made him laugh-that he felt the decoction  _ really  _ kick in. 

 

Before, he’d just been buzzed, like the way he normally got when he drank a few shots of mandrake. All of a sudden his face felt hot, there was grey around the edge of his vision, and his sense of smell sharpened twofold. Suddenly, the scent of the witcher next to him wasn't just the familiar bitter smell of ugents and herbs with the ever-present smell of monster blood and rot, but now he could smell the dried fruit he’d eaten earlier on his breath, the levels of cortisol in his blood. He blinks, amazed, and takes a subtle sniff. Under all that, he can finally smell what Yennefer must have liked so much, and probably the scent he had when not wading through swamps and drowners. He smelled like black earth and the clean ozone after a storm, and it was actually...nice. Nothing like the softer, ocean-sweet smell of a woman, but pleasant in its own way.

 

He feeling decidedly muzzy and warmer now, this close to the hot water bottle that was Geralt (his temperature tended to run hotter than a  normal human) chasing off the chilly dampness of the chamber. His thoughts were slow and simplistic as well, mostly focusing on physical sensations like the texture of the bars against his forehead. He felt far less anxious now, and very relaxed. He was even so bold as to rub his chin affectionately against his friend’s shoulder and pressing close to feel the other man’s body heat. 

 

Geralt stopped talking when Regis started getting cuddly and backed off a bit so he could look at him to gauge if the decoction had really started working. Regis’ skin was flushed, and his pupils were blown. They hadn't completely turned black yet, but there wasn't much of the iris left. He cautiously went for the tunic buttons, and this time his friend didn't flinch. Geralt just rested his hand on the vampire's chest for a moment, and other than leaning into it slightly he didn't seem to mind. Now that it came down to it, though, Geralt wasn't sure  _ he  _ was okay with this. He’d been trying not to think about it; that he was literally going to jack his friend off until he went nuts, but also that his Regis was going to be...kinda out of it. People liked to say that witchers had no morality, and admittedly he’d done a lot of questionable things in his time, but doing things to a person when they were drugged-even if they’d given consent beforehand-just felt...unsettling.

 

“...You okay Regis?” He slurred because the mandrake had  _ really  _ started to hit him.

 

It took him a minute to reply. “...You're starting to smell quite tasty.”

 

He jerks his hand out of the cage. “You’re starting to scare me.”

 

Regis laughed, and while it sounded a little on the unhinged side it sounded  _ mostly  _ like him. “Not in the sense that I’d like to feed on you, Geralt. Simply thinking that Yen was right, you  _ do  _ have a nice, manly smell.”

 

“...Thanks.” He muttered, putting his hand back in. At least he knew that the vampire wouldn't bite it off.

 

He carefully undid the buttons and pushed the tunic aside, revealing that the vampire had the kind of torso that any middle-aged man had, even if he was in comparatively good shape. Guess he was expecting a six-pack with the kind of strength that vampires possessed, but he had the same paunch as anybody else. He then started working on the belt, flicking his eyes up to Regis’ face to make  _ sure  _ he wasn't going to panic again, but he seemed mostly impassive. He was also staring at Geralt, more specifically his chest with a...vacant look, and he really,  _ really _ wishes he had his armor back on, but if it helps make this ordeal any shorter he’ll just deal with it.

 

He pushed the pants down and- _ Oh, what the fuck he’s  _ bigger  _ than me, that’s just insulting- _ and grabbed the oil. He was trying not to look, but it was kinda unavoidable. The sight of Regis’ flaccid dick was probably going to be a mood-killer for a long, long time. The only time the vampire made any sort of protest was when he put the oil on.

 

“Couldn’t have...warmed it first.” He muttered under his breath, and Geralt ignored him.

 

Now to...actually do the deed. He steels himself, but he isn't quite able to suppress the full-body shudder when he touches it and tries to ignore the feeling like his skin is trying to crawl off his bones. He wraps a hand around, and mechanically strokes it.

 

For a minute it’s just...well, his hand is on his best friend’s dick, there’s no getting around that, and this is so damn awkward but other than that it’s pretty easy to lie back and think of Novigrad. He’s been able to meditate under worse circumstances, and he falls into it now. Regis, for his part, doesn't react much either. After about fifteen minutes, he starts to get concerned. Maybe Regis’ got understandable issues with getting it up, but the medication was supposed to overcome that.

 

“You okay Regis?” He said, not looking. He was definitely not going to look, oh hell no. 

 

“You…” He sounded apologetic, but also annoyed. “Could you at least…”

 

“Regis,” He growled, really annoyed. “If you are going to ask me to try to do anything special, it’s not happening.”

 

“You could at least  _ try.  _ It’s like fucking a dead fish.”

 

“You have  _ no _ room to complain.”

 

“If you want to get anywhere, at all, then at least put some effort in.”

 

He’s seriously considering trying to rip the damn thing off, but they’d gone through all this to  _ avoid  _ torture so that would defeat the whole purpose. He grits his teeth, and tries to pretend he’s just stroking himself and...he just can’t feel it. Up, down, a twist at the top. It takes just a minute of this for the vampire to start to respond. He’s in the middle of rubbing his thumb under the head when Regis makes a stifled noise, breaking his concentration. He stops, then forces himself to keep going. He hopes to whatever god is listening that Regis isn't the vocal type.

 

Regis, for his part, is...surprised. While this is not the best handjob he’s ever gotten, it’s not the worst either, though he supposes the medication is helping. It a bit like the high he used to get on blood, but mellow, not frantic. He thinks it might be like the high humans got on cannabis or close to it, though less euphoric. He wiggles his toes, feeling very,  _ very _ good about now. 

 

He just...drifts, letting himself revel in the physical sensations; his mind’s eye going back to other, far more pleasant situations. Now, he has hindsight to recognize his previous relationship with the self-styled ‘queen of the night’ had been unhealthy, but  _ boy  _ did he miss the sex. He groans as feels the thumb swipe over the head, remembering the last time she’d had him in chains. She’d leave him waiting for hours while she handled other clients, coming back smelling of sex and blood. She’d let him lick the blood from her mouth, then ride him mercilessly until he was brought to the very edge and then jump off him to lightly tap his balls with a riding crop, the pain just enough to force him to back down. She’d delighted in that part the most, grinning wickedly at his squeals. Again and again, she’d done that until he was screaming and crying in terms, begging for her to stop, to continue,  _ anything  _ to let him get his sanity back. 

 

For a moment, just a  _ moment  _ he’s back there, salt and copper in his mouth, the musk of her a heady perfume.

 

He gasps, snapping back to the present, his head muddled and unable to discern if it was just a daydream or hallucination. Geralt looks up at him, narrowing his eyes. For a second or two, Regis had changed into his more bestial form and his eyes had been vacant, nothing that he recognized as his friend behind them. It was actually  _ working _ .

 

Now that he could see that he’s getting somewhere, he redoubled his efforts. Regis practically  _ shrieked.  _ Oh, gods, he had not been expecting that, and it’s getting to the point of pleasure-pain like he’d gotten with his lover last time; but this is almost violent. Geralt is not a gentle man. He’s never really engaged in anything rougher than light lovetaps from his lover; this has an edge to it he’s never experienced before and he’s not sure if he-

 

Then Geralt gives the head a sharp squeeze to cut off his orgasm, and it’s like an electric shock through his spine, the back of his skull feeling cold and tingling, and oh he **_loves_** it _, yes, yes, yes-_

 

Good gods, the man is practically screaming. He should...uh, make sure he’s okay. “Maybe we should use a safeword when you’ve had enough?”

 

“And what...would you do...when I uttered it?” He managed through gritted teeth.

 

“I dunno, calm you down maybe?”

 

“I will endure Geralt.” He says, voice terribly uneven. 

 

He pauses, then keeps going. Now that Geralt’s  _ really  _ fucking drunk-and getting drunker by the minute because he’s still nursing a bottle-he seems to have abandoned his earlier reservations. Now it's more like an intellectual pursuit for him, or as intellectual as it’s possible to be when his brain is pickled.  _ Can  _ Regis squeal like a girl? Well, if you practically vibrate your thumb and forefinger over the head of his cock, he can. At some point he’s starting to nurse a half-hard cock too, but not because the mandrake has finally given him beer goggles to make the middle-age, greying vampire appealing, but he’s a man with a particularly strong libido and the situation-and alcohol-is enough. He’s still not going to give himself a hand though, but this is no longer horribly repellent.

 

Regis, on the other hand, is well past the ‘repellent’ stage now. It was good, so very  _ good _ , the slick hand on his flesh. So many years in isolation has an effect, short stints with a succubus notwithstanding, and it helps that the hand is attached to such a pleasant view. He greedily eyes the scarred expanse, the toned muscles, and appreciates that those muscles are not for show. Vampires had no need of bulk for their strength lies elsewhere, and the flex of his wrist and contraction of his biceps is a masterful display of the real, tangible strength that Geralt possessed. He’s rough but dexterous, and he knows it in the marrow of his bones that a man like this would fuck like he fights. Ruthless, but precise, all that grace and power that he’d witnessed in their many battles translated into the quick strokes and a tight grip around his cock, the submissive position of Geralt on his knees in front of him nothing but a farce. He’s the one in control here, and Regis is nothing but a twitching mass of nerves. 

 

(when one is a nigh-immortal, nigh-unkillable being, anything that can make you feel like you have no say nor control is either terrifying or a massive turn-on. Regis has experienced both in his long life, in both roles of the submissive and the dominated, but he can count the times he’s been in the latter on one hand.)

 

He’s never seriously considered Geralt as a bed partner as he would  _ so _ not appreciate the thought, but he’s definitely considering it now. He drifts back to the one little guilty fantasy he’s had off and on, staring at Geralt's mouth and wondering at the perfectly even, dull teeth that he has behind his closed lips. Blowjobs weren't a thing among most vampires-hard to give one when even careful ministrations might result in teeth nicking very sensitive areas-and he has fantasized more than once about getting sucked off by one of the few humans he knows. He’ll never admit it, but in their hansa days he’d imagined Geralt crawling to his bedroll growling that he’d seen him looking before taking him into his mouth, leaving Regis struggling to keep quiet lest the others of their band hear what they’re doing.  _ Yes, yes, so close, gods Geralt you’ve such a beautiful mouth- _

 

He comes crashing back into himself when the movement stops and only just registers Geralt’s muttered  _ ‘what the  _ **_fuck_ ** _ ’  _ to realize that he might have said that out loud, but he doesn't get the chance to dwell on it because the movement starts up again. It’s less intense, the grip looser, almost  _ tentative.  _ He snarls and kicks the bars because he’d liked the roughness and he’d been so  _ close,  _ damn that man. He cuts his own tongue on his teeth which are getting longer by the second, his hands clenching and unclenching, the slowly lengthening nails biting into his palm.

 

He wants  _ roughness _ , teeth in his neck, not this limp-wristed timidity. Something beastly, uncontrolled, something not  _ human.  _ For once he just wants to rut like an animal, unconcerned with maintaining a thin veneer of carefully-constructed humanity-

 

(He’s very, very close to the edge of that dark warm space that he’s only visited a handful of times)

 

At this point he doesn't really care what he’s saying or feeling, snarling at Geralt  _ more, more,  _ biting at the bars in frustration, hissing in satisfaction when he complies. He can feel himself slipping further and further and suddenly it’s like a light flashes at the back of his skull, and he’s not sure if its a daydream or hallucination when Dettlaff joins him in the cage. He's in all his animal glory, sinking the points of his fangs in his neck, cock rocking inside of him in a punishing rhythm-

 

Regis doesn't even register the knife across his palm, and he should because Geralt is really fuckin’ uncoordinated and it bites deeper than is needed. He gets the blood then stumbles back, really looking at his friend who...is utterly out of his mind. Regis actually  _ roars  _ at him in frustration, and it’s downright terrifying. He blinks at his friend, who he’s not really sure how to calm down. He looks down, vision swimming at the movement, and can see the cock he’d been working on is...different. It’s longer, tapered, and  _ the hell, is that a knot? _

 

He jumps when Regis rattles the cage so hard it almost tips over, and somewhere in his pickled brain a thought swims up.  _ Well, only one way to calm him down now.  _ His vision swims and greys a little at the edges when kneels again, and snakes his whole arm into the cage to wrap it around Regis’ waist to yank him up against the bars so the angry bastard will stay still for two seconds. Even a witcher is no match for a vampire’s strength, but it's  _ enough _ of a match to keep him still long enough for this. His other hand is still around the mandrake bottle, and he really likes that bottle, too much to just let it go, so mouth it is. He impales his face on it, not really concerned about it because hey, he’s done this to Yen’s strapon before, so how different could it be?

 

The sound that Regis makes is somewhere just at the edge of hearing; it makes his inner ear tickle and itch, but he can still hear the name in it. 

 

He whips his mouth off it at just the last second to avoid cum. It gets on the blanket instead, and... _ oh wow, that’s a lot. Does he just not masturbate? I am taking him to a brothel after this job for sure, that’s just not healthy. _

 

Then the mandrake finally catches up with him, and all he sees is black.

 

* * *

 

Conscienceness is a long way coming, but he’s eventually brought to it by an insistent voice.

 

“-alt? Geralt.”

 

“...Five more minutes.” He mumbled.

 

“I’d really rather not stay in this cage any longer than necessary.” A sigh. “ _ Please  _ Geralt, it’s a bit...chilly down here, and I don’t have my hands free.”

 

He groaned and rolled over. 

 

“This is...not my proudest moment as an alchemist.” Regis coughed.

 

“Shut the fuck up.” Geralt hissed, struggling to get his legs under him. “Oh  _ gods  _ where is the willowbark. My head-”

 

The mandrake comes back up with a vengeance, all over Regis’ feet.

 

“...Those boots were new, you know. Look, I’m sorry-“

 

“No.” He said slowly, “For once, you are not talking. Not discussing any of this. Don’t care how much it pains you to keep your mouth shut for once, you can  _ shut the fuck up _ .”

 

Regis, finally, shuts the fuck up. 

 

Geralt’s stomach has settled enough that he keeps himself from puking again when the shriek of the cage opening stabs into his skull. Regis doesn't get out immediately, half curled in on himself in an attempt to save what little was left of his dignity by shoving his cock back into his pants before turning around. The tips of his ears are red and he can’t look Geralt in the face, but he does manage-rather stiffly-to help Geralt out of the place, the man leaning heavily on him the whole way. They’re silent the whole way back, and it’s not until they’re back in the crypt and Regis is working on the potion that Geralt speaks.

 

“So.” He starts slowly. “Dettlaff.”

 

Regis gives him a curious look.

 

“...Is he your boyfriend.”

 

“Wh-no!” Regis spluttered.

 

“You yelled his name. Kinda rude, honestly.” He drawled.

 

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response. But to elaborate, still no, because he’s got a mate, a  _ female one. _ ”

 

“Is he your crush then.”

 

“Fuck. You.”


End file.
